


The Mother

by folderol



Category: Arvingerne | The Legacy
Genre: Disintegrating Marriage, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folderol/pseuds/folderol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He fell in love with her mother first.</em>
</p><p>How a Norwegian living in Germany finds a new home in Denmark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Here I go, writing in what seems to be a non-existent fandom (unless there's fan fiction in Danish?). If you read the following story, I would appreciate it if you comment below, so that I know that I'm not writing into an internet black hole. :)
> 
> I'm not Danish or Norwegian, so any cultural, geographic, or linguistic mistakes are mine!
> 
> Set before and during Series One.

He fell in love with her mother first.

A few years before he began working with Veronika Grønnegaard, Robert heard her speak briefly at the Gothenburg Museum of Art. He was there for work, examining paintings by the Swedish artist Martin Bengtsson that Robert’s client was considering purchasing. The theme of the exhibition was “Nordic Sagas: Three Alternative Visions.”

Bengtsson introduced himself in front of the gallery crowd, gruffly explaining the contextual basis of his work. His speech was in Swedish, no more than six stiff sentences, startling the interpreters with its brevity. They looked up in surprise and began to rushedly translate as Bengtsson passed the microphone to the man next to him.

The second alternative visionary was an Icelandic filmmaker, whose long name with its unfamiliar syllables escaped Robert. The stumplike man whispered his introduction in stilted English and almost immediately delegated the audience’s attention to a clip of one of the short films he had produced in the glacial wilderness in the center of Iceland.

The third artist, and most alternative of all, was Veronika.

A lithe woman in her late fifties or early sixties stepped in front of the two dull men besides her, shaking hands with the curator and the host with a vigor beyond her years. She clasped both hands around theirs and smiled at them warmly. Then she turned and shone her warmth towards the crowd in front of her.

“Welcome and thank you all for coming,” she began with a wide smile, in confident English. She brushed her wiry gray hair aside. “My name is Veronika Grønnegaard and I’m very pleased to present six new sculptures here in Göteborg. I’d like to thank Sanna -- “

She nodded at the curator.

“ -- and Andreas -- ”

She waved at the presenter.

“ -- for inviting me to present my work at this great museum in this lovely city. I am truly honored.”

Robert felt himself leaning in, intrigued by the sincerity that radiated from her. The entire crowd seemed to perk up after two rather dead introductions.

“My works marry the abstract and conceptual -- the unreal, in other words -- with the natural, the textures and shapes of the living world. I want to highlight the importance of non-humans in the Nordic sagas and folk stories. The raven, the fjords, the things that shape the perceptions of people past and present. I love to tell the story of the Other, the things that may seem peripheral -- yet in hindsight are very central indeed. I love to hear other perspectives of my work.“

She now gestured towards the audience.

“Please, if you feel a passionate response to my art, please come to talk with me. I would like to see and hear the effect of my work. Thank you _very_ much for this opportunity. I hope you enjoy -- no, _feel_ \-- I hope you _feel_ the vibrant nature of my art, because what is art but a reaction that sparks another reaction?

“Thank you again.”

Robert clapped politely, but inside he was excited to see the art that had excited her. Later, while reflecting on this episode, he was sorry he hadn’t conversed with Veronika: she was, at all times, surrounded by a throng of heady admirers. At the other side of the gallery, Robert was held down by an uncomfortable discussion with the artist Bengtsson, who looked increasingly put-off by Robert’s client’s rather low offer for one of his works.

Years later, a former colleague of Robert’s mentioned that Veronika Grønnegaard was seeking a new gallery manager.

He was living in Hamburg at the time, with his wife Claudia. He had encouraged Claudia, from the very beginning of their relationship, to follow her own career ambitions, not merely allow her budding career in financial services fade in the face of his own career in arts management.

He questioned (and almost regretted, truth be told) his original egalitarian idea to place Claudia’s career on equal footing with his. As a result, he rarely saw Claudia -- she was often in the house in her work suit, pencil skirt neatly tailored to her tidy frame -- and then she would rush out, pecking a kiss onto his cheek as he held the front door open. “ _Ha det bra_ ,” she said in her faltering Norwegian accent.

“ _Auf Wiedersehen_ ,” he replied, hiding his disappointment that his surprise breakfast -- complete with schlackwurst, her favorite -- had lasted all of five minutes.

It was time to get his career on track, he decided with finality. Freelance assignments in Hamburg and Frankfurt aside, Robert knew he was letting his connections in Scandinavia go to waste. He knew all the major artists and galleries in Norway, Sweden, Denmark -- the German art scene was a separate world, immersed in a different history and tradition. When Johanna, his old colleague, met with him for coffee and mentioned the Funen position with Veronika, he asked for Veronika’s contact information with only a tinge of guilt.

 

* * *

 

Even though he was married, Robert didn’t doubt that Veronika would have no qualms about seducing him if the mood struck her.

It was not that he, Robert, actually desired an affair with this formidable Danish artist. He appreciated her healthy acceptance of every possibility, no matter how unusual. Robert quickly realized that everything, including having sex with an employee twenty years her junior, was within the realm of possibility. If he had told her in their interview that he was a necrophiliac, she would have taken the news calmly and would wonder how might she integrate his insight into her art.

Robert enjoyed working under his new employer. Although clearly artistically motivated, Veronika had the sharpest business sense of any artist he had worked under. She gave clear instructions, laughed easily, and was generous with her money.

Underneath this sunny demeanor, however, she became increasingly wrapped up in numbers. She had hired him for a reason, to prepare for an uncertain future. Veronika was determined to map out a peaceful retirement in Italy and ensure that her children would carry on her legacy, if she were to die. 

 _No_ , she had corrected him gently. She was definitely going to die. _When_ was the real question.

Veronika’s serene nature clashed with the house she lived in. Grønnegaard was a living museum that testified to the history of its current and previous inhabitants. There were Middle Eastern tapestries (possessions of her long-dead husband, an antiques dealer); discarded tapes belonging to her ex-partner, a musician who still lived on the grounds of the estate; teenage watercolors by her eldest daughter. It was a gallery manager’s dream and nightmare: a chaotic mess that needed to be organized and archived. It seemed that everyday Robert found new pieces of Veronika’s art in the manor.

Grønnegaard contained old and new art around every corner. Veronika’s family was brimming with creativity and she openly welcomed other artists to experiment at her grand old house.

But the Grønnegaards themselves never seemed to visit their matriarch. Veronika occasionally skyped with her youngest son, Emil, who was in Thailand.

“Doing what?” Robert had asked.

“Oh, convorting with whores, with a bit of business on the side,” replied Veronika pleasantly. “He’s been at it for years, dear boy, with this resort business.”

Veronika had another son, a lawyer, who resided in the nearby city, but she never talked about him for some reason. On the other hand, she received a call almost every night from a daughter who lived in Copenhagen.

Robert did not meet this daughter of Veronika’s until three weeks after he began working at Grønnegaard. He was about halfway through categorizing the artwork stored in the basement. Just as he was about to pick up a heavy-looking wooden crate on the ground, a voice behind him suddenly rang through the dank room: 

“Don’t pick that up!”

Heels clacked on the tiled floor; a blonde woman emerged from the sunlit side door entrance. She cocked her head curiously at him, eyes alight with a mixture of intrigue and hostility.

“Who are you?” she snapped. 

Robert stepped up to her, hand outstretched. “Robert Eliassen. I’m Veronika’s new gallery manager.”

She grasped his hand cautiously, still regarding him with her naturally wide eyes. Her short hair was neatly cropped, unlike Veronika’s.

“Ah,” she said coolly, without a trace of recognition.

“You must be Veronika’s daughter.” He put on a welcoming smile, hoping to put her at ease.

Her outfit -- a neatly-ironed cream blouse paired with sleek slacks and a smooth black blazer -- was professional, too structured compared to what Veronika might wear to a formal business meeting. Still, Robert could detect clues that this fortysomething woman -- or was she younger, he pondered, with those bright eyes -- was kin to Veronika: something about the way she held the papers in her hands, perhaps, ready to hand them off with instructions. Her face was rounder than Veronika’s, more guarded, but her stance had the same poise as Veronika.

“Yes,” she said. “My name is Gro.”

“Gro,” he repeated, still smiling gently at her. “Pleased to meet you. Now, why is it that I shouldn’t pick up this crate?”

She raised an eyebrow and waved a hand carelessly. “My mother has many delicate sculptures. It’s best if you open the crate first and double check what’s inside, then decide… “ She trailed off as a phone vibrated in her blazer pocket. She ignored it, continuing, “...then decide the next step.”

“Ah, that’s a good idea. I was about to move this crate to some better light so I could better see it, but I see your reasoning.”

Robert gingerly bent down and removed to the top of the crate.

“What is it?” asked Gro, taking out her phone as she absentmindedly combed her hair with her free hand.

“It’s something quite delicate indeed.”

She glanced up from the message she was reading.

“Really?”

Gro walked up to Robert and peered over his shoulder.

“What is it? I see nothing.”

Robert threw her a sly look, aware of her face so close to his. “Exactly. It’s nothing. There’s nothing stored in this crate.”

“Hey!” Her tired eyes widened and a spark seemed to light within them. She clicked her tongue and lightly clapped him on the shoulder. Gro shook her head as she raised her other hand to place her phone next to her ear.

Robert brushed his trousers as he raised himself back up, watching as Gro stepped out into the yard to make her call.

 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, she walked into the kitchen as Robert was typing up archival notes. She pulled out a chair beside him.

“No need to ask where you’re from, judging from your accent,” she said, folding her hands. “But might as well ask. Where are you from?”

Robert finishing writing his description before looking up. Her manner was less hurried, her eyes sparkled. She was much warmer than she was earlier. He wondered if her charm could match her mother’s.

“Oslo,” he told her.

“Oh?” she responded with mock surprise. “And what’s a Norwegian doing in Denmark?”

He took a sip of tea. “I live in Hamburg actually. My wife’s German.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Hamburg… that’s a lovely city." 

“If you like modernist buildings,” Robert laughed. “I much prefer this country scenery. Funen’s lovely.”

“Yes,” Gro said wistfully. “I almost wish I still lived here. But,” she says as she rises from the table, pushing her chair back. She’s ending the conversation sooner than he expected. “It’s difficult to live with my mother. She competes. That’s what she does.”

“See you soon,” Robert says sincerely.

Gro nods and heads towards the front door, the clicking of her heels echoing in the long hallway.

 

* * *

 

Robert didn’t see Gro again for several weeks, but after Easter, she returned to the house with increasing frequency for increasingly trivial reasons. At first she would arrive with legal paperwork for Veronika to sign, the theoretical framework for a museum dedicated to Veronika’s work. Veronika had said, quite casually to Robert during his first interview, that most museums didn’t display her work properly -- oftentimes they didn’t give her pieces enough context or the right location within an exhibit. He and she and Gro would have to attempt a better job at it themselves.

Later Gro began to drop off small items, such as potted plants from Veronika’s friends in the capital. Gro would stop to chat with Robert in his makeshift offices in the manor. He began to look forward to her visits.

Grønnegaard in spring was tranquil. Robert was enthused by his new work, energized by what he considered to be mild weather. The snow melted with ease and retreated into muddy puddles. Soon wild grass began to sprout by the doorsteps, by the walkways, everywhere. The three-hour drive from Hamburg morphed into a pleasant journey: Robert was fascinated by the scenery change from the grey city blocks of Hamburg to the lively trees of Funen, brightened by blooming buds.

Robert worked Monday to Wednesday, staying in one of the many open rooms in the house, then returned home to deal with potential sales of Veronika’s work. Claudia bit her lip when Robert explained this schedule as a potential arrangement for several months, but she did not fight, did not object when he finished, anxious to battle her concerns. But she merely said: “We won’t see you then.”

 _No_ , said Robert. _But we barely see each other during the week. You leave early, you come back late, tired. With this job, I won’t have to work weekend art exhibit openings, I can stay at home and be with you and the kids._

They did not venture forth with unspoken thoughts.

Again with only slight hesitation, Robert later asked Veronika if he could work and live at Grønnegaard from Monday to Thursday. She listened carefully to his proposal and accepted with ease, too absorbed in her drawing.

 

* * *

 

Mornings meant phone calls. Robert fielded calls from Veronika’s clients, business partners, various museums around Europe. Once a week, he and Veronika reviewed potential streams of revenue. They crunched numbers, investigated galleries, and examined proposals.

“Gro will be here any minute now,” said Veronika one day, whilst reading an art industry periodical. 

Robert perked up. He smiled as he thought of new ways to provoke Gro into a good mood.

He hadn’t noticed that Veronika had stopped scanning her magazine in favor of scanning his face. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You know,” she said lightly. “You’d be good for her. God knows how many men have been put off by our little ice queen.”

Robert’s spontaneous smile morphed into a polite one. “I’m married,” he pointed out.

“So?” said Veronika in a hard, challenging tone. “Gro has some baggage herself. Take my advice. This is coming from an old woman who has lived life. I’m always on the lookout for a higher form of love, always have been. I’m never content with the lovers I do have, never as satisfied as they are with me.” Her proud eyes shone. “I can see you two satisfying each other very well.”

She only looked away as Robert’s blush grew, her own face graced with a mischievous grin.

 

* * *

 

Veronika had planted the idea, and the idea grew inside Robert’s head. The idea of being in love with Gro, this unattainable, distant woman.

Gro was a challenge. God, was she sexy.

His behavior changed, as he evaluated the risks. _Gro, Claudia, Gro, Claudia_. No doubt he had a type: careful blondes who allowed him to be the more rowdy, rumpled half of a pairing, however wild he could be in the polite world of the art-buying bourgeoise. Robert sensed a wild side in Gro that she had long repressed, like Claudia at the beginning of their relationship. Underneath her matter-of-fact manner and sharp, masculine attire, Gro was a sensitive, passionate woman, with a smile that reminded of him of the sun emerging from a blanket of clouds.

On their first joint business trip -- to Copenhagen, of all places -- he heard her speak with as much passion as the first time he saw Veronika. She radiated warmth and charm, proving that she had a gift for presentation. Despite her constant air of irritation when the subject of her mother came up, Gro was well-equipped to be her mother’s best advocate. 

 _Veronika was wrong about her daughter_ , Robert thought. 

As the taxi slowed in front of Gro’s flat in Østerbro, she reached out and touched his hand, surprising him out of his reverie.

“Won’t you come in?”

 

* * *

 

It should have been easy, falling in love. But there was enough baggage, enough guilt around every corner.

“You seem happier lately,” Claudia commented one night as she removed her earrings, readying herself for a shower.

Robert turned away, on the pretense of putting away a jacket into their walk-in closet.

“I like my job,” he said.

He did not elaborate. She did not ask.

 

* * *

 

“You look worried lately,” said Veronika as she paused in the doorway, vase of roses in her arms.

Robert swung his head back, looking up from his laptop. Before he could respond, Veronika spoke again:

“People change, you know. It’s only human. And honestly, you should change. There is no growth or progress unless you change.”

She smiled vaguely.

“There was a man who broke up with me," she continued, with more care. "He was younger, married; he had to choose. I couldn’t blame him for his choice. And Claudia won’t blame you for yours.”

She stepped away. Little did Robert know that these would be the last words Veronika would say to him.

 

* * *

 

 _He was driving away for the last time_ , he thought.

As he approached Grønnegaard at sunset, worry seeped into his mind.

Gro walked into the yard, illuminated by the red sky in front of her. Her lively eyes were unusually alert. Inside the car, he paused for a fraction of a second, savoring the sight of her, before stepping out to meet her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with trepidation. 

“I’ve left Claudia.”

Her eyes widened, silenced by this answer.

“When?” 

He looked back at his car, suddenly shy. “Today. I’ve told her everything.”

“About us?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

They stood there silently, bathed in the dimming light.

“Are you ok?” he asked, to fill the awkward lull. “Was it ok I came?”

His mind raced to answer why she looked so crestfallen, so fragile. _Perhaps she was still shocked by Veronika’s death, perhaps she needed more time before he dropped this bomb on her_ , he thought. 

“Yes.” 

Robert stared at her. “Yes?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gro replied softly. 

They embraced one another. He lifted her into the air. She felt lighter with their newfound freedom. They were free from the weight of the two women they had carried for so long.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Robert is a very peripheral character in the show, so I wanted to add some backstory as to why he might fall in love with Gro. He's so peripheral that I initially forgot he had two children and that we see Claudia briefly in Episode Two. And he seems so content that we forget that he basically abandons his family for Gro.
> 
> Also, I felt we need to see more Veronika. More characters need to take her reckless bohemian advice to heart.


End file.
